


Hugh

by NataliyaMFU



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2442644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NataliyaMFU/pseuds/NataliyaMFU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old school chum suddenly re-enters Illya's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hugh

 

 

 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Kuryakin," Alexander Waverly said, looking up under shaggy eyebrows at his Number Two agent. "I thought you said, an indefinite leave of absence."

Illya stood at the circular table, his fingers toying with its edge. "Yes, sir, if it wouldn't be too inconvenient."

Waverly cleared his throat. "The Summit Five conference is taking place at the end of April."

"Yes, sir."

"Who is in charge of security for that event?"

Illya nodded in the direction of the other man in the room. "Mr. Solo."

"And who is Mr. Solo's partner in crime?"

"That would be me, sir."

"Well, I'm glad you are aware of it, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. He took up a pen to make some notes, a signal that the audience was over.

Illya looked at Napoleon, a plea in his eyes.

Napoleon had been leaning against the wall, arms crossed, but now he stepped forward. "Sir, if I may be of assistance. All the arrangements have been made for Summit Five and the final security can't be put into place until three days before the meeting, so we have a little down time until then."

Waverly now turned his attention to his Number One agent and locked eyes with him. It took all of three seconds for Napoleon to blink, take a step back, and give his partner a look that said, "you're on your own."

"Would you consider a two-week leave, sir?" Illya said, risking further ire.

Napoleon winced as Waverly put his pen down on the table with a thwack. "Give me a reason, Mr. Kuryakin."

This had Napoleon's attention. Illya hadn't give him a reason either, but blind faith didn't preclude curiosity.

After a pause, Illya replied. "I have a friend in London who has been falsely accused of murder and imprisoned, and is incapable of proving his innocence himself. He was arrested in January but I only just discovered it. The wheels of justice have been turning ever since and his trial is imminent." Illya's voice became soft and cajoling. "I simply want to investigate in his stead."

Waverly was quiet for a moment. He hated injustice, as his Number Two agent was well aware. He sighed and shook his head as if berating himself for what he was about to do. "You're certain this man did not commit the crime?"

A glimmer of hope shone in Illya's eyes. "As certain as…as if it were Napoleon who was accused," he said, looking in his partner's direction.

Napoleon was taken aback. To come to the salvation of this mysterious friend, Illya was willing -- no, eager -- to drop everything, fly across an ocean, and God knows what else. And now he was comparing his friendship with him to their friendship? A tiny wave of jealousy crept up Solo's spine.

"Not one minute longer, Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly said. "You are to set foot in this building at exactly --" he looked at the clock on the wall that showed the local time -- "3:15 p.m. on Monday, two weeks from today, if not before."

"Thank you, sir," Illya said, obviously relieved.

Waverly swiveled his chair, turning his back to them. "Well, get on with it."

Illya smiled at Napoleon and they fell into step together. Upon arriving at their shared office, Illya began tying up loose ends on his desk. "This report needs your signature," he said to Napoleon, dropping it on his partner's desk. His mood had lightened considerably. "And don't think I'll forget in two weeks that you owe me five dollars and two lunches."

"I don't believe you've ever mentioned you had a good friend in London," Napoleon said casually. "Why don't you fill me in on this fellow and his predicament?"

"There's a good amount of circumstantial evidence against him," Illya said, taking his suitcase from the closet. "And I plan to unearth hard evidence to the contrary." He opened his bag and checked the contents. "I have to hurry if I want to catch the 6:20 plane to Heathrow. May I take your toothpaste? I just remembered that I ran out last trip."

"Help yourself," Napoleon said, watching while Illya opened Napoleon's bag and snagged the tube from it. "What's your friend's name?"

Illya paused and Napoleon could see that he was reluctant to let his partner get involved.

 _Why the secrecy?_ Napoleon wondered. He flexed his powers of persuasion. "You obviously haven't had time to make any inquiries from this end. With all of UNCLE's resources, you never know what I could uncover."

Illya considered this for a moment. "His name is Hugh Bennett."

Napoleon began to take notes. "And he's British?"

"He's from a village in Cornwall originally, but he's lived in London since we left Cambridge." Illya closed the fasteners on his suitcase with a one-two snap, tucked his passport into his breast pocket, and headed for the door. "I'll see you in two weeks."

"Illya, wait a min---"

Napoleon watched the door close on his protest and frowned.  _Ever since we left Cambridge_ , Illya had said. So, an old school chum.

Napoleon had taken for granted that he and Illya were number one on each other's priority list. But now he knew that there was someone who predated their friendship, someone to whom Illya also owed a staunch loyalty. What had this man been to Illya?

And what was he still?  
   
****************************** 

Four days had passed with no word from Illya except his daily check-in with headquarters.

In the meantime, Napoleon had read the dossier that must have taken Research all of fifteen minutes to compile for him. Hugh Bennett had been born the son of a tradesman and a part-time seamstress. He had been an exceptionally brilliant child who eventually earned a scholarship to Cambridge where he studied law.

After he'd earned his degree he opened a small office in a less-than-fashionable London neighborhood, and went to work defending the working class -- going to the rescue of adolescent offenders on pleas from their distraught mothers, challenging eviction notices, negotiating plea bargains.

Was it only the lack of social connections that kept Hugh from gaining a position in an affluent law firm, or did he have ideals that dictated service to those less fortunate? Because of Illya's obvious opinion of the man, Napoleon suspected the latter.

Hugh lived modestly and, after the rent and the bills were paid, appeared to be lucky to afford a Saturday night out.

It was on one of those nights that Hugh was seen chatting with the two murdered girls. They had approached him in a club, on the prowl for potential suitors. Joan Davies and Sally Clarke were mod girls, fashionable and flirty, and talked to Hugh only long enough to realize that they could find greener pastures. Unfortunately, the snub was perceived by authorities as a possible motive.

Witnesses said that Hugh had followed the women out. One said he saw him talking with them on the next street, near where their bodies were found. Joan had been beaten by a left-handed man, which Hugh was. The card he had given her was found in her purse, torn in two. There were other pieces of circumstantial evidence which, added together, made Hugh the number one suspect.

Napoleon tossed the dossier on his desk with a sigh. It was not a matter that UNCLE's London office would concern themselves with. Nothing about the murder of two ordinary women could possibly affect world order. He knew, however, that Illya would be doing his damnedest with the little time he had to clear Hugh's name.

Illya. Napoleon had refrained from contacting him, not wishing to appear intrusive, but he could no longer resist. Not speaking to Illya for more than even one day always created an itch that Napoleon needed to scratch.

"Open Channel D, overseas relay." He waited a minute while the satellite connection was made.

"Kuryakin."

"How's it going, Sherlock?"

"Napoleon, how nice to hear your sarcasm."

Napoleon chuckled. He'd missed that voice, that easy rapport. "Seriously, when will I get my partner back?"

"Unfortunately, I've made no progress whatsoever." Napoleon could discern the discouragement in Illya's voice as well as his words. "I've been investigating for three days and…nothing."

Napoleon tsked. "Sorry to hear that."

"I haven't given up."

"Have you, ah, seen your friend?" Napoleon asked.

"Yes, I've visited him at the prison several times. He appears cheerful and optimistic, but I know better."

lllya could apparently read the man, even after fourteen years. "I'm sure something will turn up," Napoleon said.

"It seems all my friends are falsely optimistic."

Napoleon smiled into the communicator. "All your friends have faith in you."

"Thank you, Napoleon. I will try to be worthy of that."

"Stay in touch, tovarisch."

"I will. Kuryakin out."

Napoleon replaced the communicator in his pocket and sat back in his chair for a moment. Illya was seeing Hugh at the prison, reconnecting with him. And here Napoleon sat, twiddling his thumbs, being no help to his partner whatsoever.

He sat forward and flipped a couple of pages ahead on his day calendar, then got up and headed for Waverly's office.

"Is he free, Lisa?"

"Yes, Napoleon, let me announce you."

Napoleon was admitted to the office and found Mr. Waverly gazing out the window, pipe in hand, apparently lost in thought. Napoleon waited until his presence was acknowledged. "Yes, Mr. Solo?"

"Sir, I was wondering if you'll need me this weekend. We're supposed to have fair weather, and I'd like to go out on the Sound for my first sail of the season. However, that would mean I wouldn't be able to get back to the city at a moment's notice."

Waverly sat down at his desk. "You deserve some recreational pursuits, Mr. Solo. I'll remember that you're not on call."

Solo smiled, gave a little bow and backed away. "Thank you, sir. Have a fine weekend yourself."

As Napoleon turned he heard, "Oh, Mr. Solo."

He looked back to see his boss with a business card in his outstretched hand. Napoleon approached and took it from him.

"I believe I'm still a member in good standing at the Travellers Club. This card will admit you and Mr. Kuryakin for dinner. I recommend the lamb."

Napoleon took the card with a sheepish, "Thank you, sir."

He was at Kennedy airport in time for the 6:20 flight to Heathrow.  
   
******************************  
   
UNCLE knew of their agents' whereabouts at all times -- or liked to think they did -- so Napoleon was able to track Illya to Kensington and the Hotel St. George. He made himself at home in the sitting room, out of sight of the desk clerk who had eyed him when he walked in just after dawn.

He surveilled the guests from behind _The_ _Times_ as they made their way to the breakfast room.

"I know someone who looks like you," said a familiar voice from behind him, "but he's in New York where he belongs."

Napoleon put the paper down. "You win today's spy competition."

Illya moved around in front of him. "Why are you in this chair, in my hotel, in London?"

"Now Illya, you helped Clara and Colonel Morgan. The least I can do is return the favor."

Illya gave Napoleon a small smile. "Let's not discuss the absurdly forgiving Clara, or the traitorous Colonel Morgan." He glanced toward the breakfast room. "Have you eaten?"

Napoleon smiled back, glad that no argument would ensue. "Nothing worthy of the name food."

They were shown to a table near a bright window.

"How long can you stay?" asked Illya over plates of eggs, sausages, toast and jam.

"Only until tomorrow afternoon and a five o'clock flight," Napoleon said while he delicately cracked a soft-boiled egg with his spoon. "Mr. Waverly said we could have dinner at his club, but I suppose time is too precious for that."

"What was his reaction to your flying here for the weekend?"

Napoleon chuckled, remembering the conversation. "I fibbed about that. Said I was going out on the Pursang but he saw right through me."

"And that surprises you?"

"The man continually surprises me," Napoleon said after swallowing a sip of Earl Grey. "Now, where are we in this investigation?"

"I've talked to the police, to Hugh's court-appointed solicitor, to all the people in the neighborhood where the bodies were found, and to many of the women's friends. All those who were willing to speak to me, that is."

"And you've hit a dead end?"

"So far," Illya said. "But I've been waiting for tonight. I want to visit the club where Hugh met the women, under the same Saturday night circumstances."

Napoleon nodded. "With the same clientele."

"Yes, and your help will be invaluable."

As usual, his and Illya's minds were perfectly in sync. "And in the meantime?"

Illya looked up at his partner. "In the meantime, you can meet Hugh."  
   
******************************  
   
HM Prison Brixton was a sooty brick edifice of infamous reputation which had been tempered in the post-war era, but a predictable hopelessness still pervaded. The two UNCLE agents surrendered their weapons and were shown to a stark grey room, the only furnishings a bare metal table and four chairs.

Napoleon stood against one wall while Illya paced uneasily. "Do you usually have to wait long?"

"It's always too long," Illya said, glancing at the heavy door. "But at least you and I can leave."

They both straightened up at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The door opened and the prisoner was both preceded and followed by a guard.

Hugh Bennett hesitated in the doorway when he saw Napoleon, then his gaze shifted to Illya and his face broke into a reassured smile. One of the guards unlocked Hugh's handcuffs and took a place against the wall, arms crossed in a no-nonsense pose. Hugh rubbed his wrists and approached Illya.

"Always good to see you, Inky."

Illya glanced at Napoleon and gave Hugh a mock glare. "Must you call me that?"

Hugh grinned and wrapped his arms around Illya, the embrace heartily returned. Napoleon took note of every second of it, clenching his jaw to the count of five.

Illya finally gripped Hugh's shoulders and pushed him to arms' length. "Let me introduce you to someone."

Hugh turned to Napoleon.

"This is my partner at UNCLE, Napoleon Solo," Illya said. "You can trust him as you trust me."

Hugh thrust out his hand and shook Napoleon's with enthusiasm. "Delighted to meet you, Napoleon. Illya has spoken glowingly of you this past week. Seems the two of you are of one mind, at least...professionally."

The man radiated charm, his blue-grey eyes warm and friendly and crinkled at the corners, his mop of dark hair in waves over his temples. The entire package was disturbingly, at least to Napoleon, disarming.

"Glad to finally meet you, Hugh," Napoleon replied, turning on his own charm. He looked at Illya. "Although I like to think Illya and I are simpatico under most circumstances."

"Of course," Hugh said, then motioned to the table. "Would you care to sit down? I'm afraid it's the maid's afternoon off so there's no tea."

Napoleon and Illya took seats opposite Hugh.

Hugh seemed to want to reminisce. "Napoleon, do you get the Kuryakin glare when he doesn't approve of something you've done? I knew I was in for it whenever I left my clothes on the floor, or waited too long to write a paper for class and sat up all night with the light on."

"You seem to have survived," Illya teased.

"Indeed I did," Hugh said as he looked at Illya with affection. "Painlessly."

"We only have fifteen minutes so we'd better get down to business," Illya cautioned.

"Do tell me," Hugh said, "that you've found some dastardly villain who's confessed to the crime, and I'm to be released any minute now."

Illya stared down at his clasped hands and said nothing.

"Or perhaps not," Hugh said.

Napoleon cleared his throat. "There's still a month before the trial begins. Plenty of time for a break in the case."

"Ahh," Hugh said to Napoleon, nodding. "Do you really---"

"Hugh," Illya said, interrupting.

Hugh's attention jerked back to his friend.

"We're going to The Red Lion tonight. Some of the same people who were there the night it happened might be there tonight."

"You mean, ideally, the guilty party."

Illya nodded. "Or someone who might have seen something. Something they think was innocuous but may give us a lead." Illya looked at Napoleon. "My friend here is quite good at chatting up the ladies."

"I do my best," Napoleon said.

Hugh's smile was cynical now. "Just be sure you don't accidentally follow one out the door, only for her to end up less than alive. Or you and I might become roommates."

"I'll be careful."

"I know I've asked you a hundred times," Illya said, "but have you remembered anything that might be helpful?"

Hugh hung his head, concentrating, but after a minute shook his head. "I'm snookered, aren't I?"

Illya reached over and lay his hand on Hugh's. "It's far from over." Hugh put his other hand over Illya's.

Napoleon watched them as they locked eyes for a moment, unaccustomed to feeling like an intruder where his partner was concerned.

"Is there anything you need?" Illya asked.

Hugh appeared to buck up. "Oh, the usual things. A good bottle of wine, a featherbed, Sophia Loren."

Illya raised an eyebrow. "Those are usual for you, are they?"

"No, but you'd think since I'm here at Her Majesty's pleasure, she might provide some amenities," Hugh said, looking comically disgruntled.

"TIME," the guard said with finality.

The three of them stood up, their chairs scraping the floor with a chilling sound.

Hugh shook Napoleon's hand again. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help, Napoleon," he said soberly. "Especially for coming all this way."

"Well, I have to keep an eye on my partner here," Napoleon said, smiling benignly.

"I should think putting up with Illya all these years would have earned you a medal," Hugh said, his jolly personality reasserting itself. "He's, um, quite the handful at times."

Napoleon wasn't sure what that meant but chose not to ask. He walked toward the door, expecting Illya to be right behind him. When he turned back he saw that Illya was still with Hugh, embracing him again, and Hugh was whispering something in Illya's ear. Illya looked into Hugh's eyes for a second, then kissed Hugh on both cheeks.  
   
******************************  
   
The evening's investigation at The Red Lion was a dismal failure, in spite of Napoleon's talents and Illya's subtle persistence. They took their leave when the bouncer threatened to remove them for putting a damper on the party atmosphere.

Even though Illya had done it several times, they walked the route to where the women's bodies were found hoping that Napoleon would see something with fresh eyes. People seemed to be avoiding the area, so there were no potential witnesses to question.

They were back in Illya's hotel room by one a.m.

Illya's energy was sapped by worry, Napoleon's by jet lag. They undressed without a word and fell into bed only to find themselves too tense to sleep. They lay next to each other, staring at the ceiling.

"I don't know what to do next," Illya confessed. "It seems we can save the world, but not one man."

"You have another week before you have to return to New York. Something will turn up."

"And if it doesn't?"

"You'll cross that bridge when you come to it."

"I may jump off that bridge," Illya said. "I can't leave Hugh with merely an apology and a wave good-bye."

"I know."

"There's no one else who believes in him," Illya said, clearly frustrated. "Not even his barrister, who is juggling several other cases. The man actually wanted Hugh to plead guilty to a lesser charge to save going to court."

Napoleon heard the strain in Illya's voice. "You should put this out of your mind for now. Your sanity and your performance depend on it."

"You're right, of course," Illya said.

"How about trading a back massage for a back massage?" Napoleon asked hopefully. He'd wanted to touch Illya all day, beyond the usual elbow-steering and lapel-smoothing. After witnessing the embrace with Hugh, he felt he'd been demoted, relegated to business associate rather than intimate. Outsider rather than confidant. He was losing badly, when a week earlier he hadn't even known there was a contest.

Illya sighed and didn't answer, didn't even seem to hear.

"Illya?"

Illya shifted to his right, putting his shoulder firmly against Napoleon's. When they were on assignment, this usually signaled that they were about to have a "your ears only" conversation. "Do you know what Hugh said to me when we parted?"

Napoleon was fairly certain he didn't. "What?"

Illya let a moment pass before he spoke. "He said he loved me."

Napoleon had held his tongue about Hugh Bennett, but now couldn't help but spout his gut reaction. "Illya, who loves someone and doesn't see them for fourteen years? Doesn't even stay in touch?"

He could feel Illya bristle. "People can be close even when there are miles and years between them, Napoleon."

"Apparently they can," Napoleon said. "You gave him a traditional kiss." _Something you've never given me,_ he thought.

"I can kiss who I want, when I want."

There was a tense few seconds of silence. "I'm not questioning your feelings," Napoleon said. "I just want to…understand."

Illya didn't reply.

"You never told me how you met Hugh," Napoleon said, taking a safer tack. "Surely you didn't have any classes together."

"No," Illya said in a softer tone, obviously not wanting the combative conversation to continue either. "I saw a notice on a board in a coffee shop. Someone was looking for a roommate to share a bedsit. What caught my eye was that the location was not far from the Cavendish Laboratory."

"So you moved in with him."

"Yes. We became friends. And Hugh opened up my world. Even though he didn't have two pennies to rub together, he was all for escaping the drudgery of academia whenever he had the chance."

Napoleon wasn't keen about these fond memories of Hugh, but they were providing some background information he wanted. "And he took you along."

"Sometimes he'd insist we go down to London for the weekend." Illya chuckled quietly. "We had to sleep in the park."

"Ahh, youth," Napoleon said, the image of Hugh and Illya snuggling together on a park bench vivid in his mind.

"During the week he and I studied at our respective libraries late into the evening, and when we got home we just collapsed into bed."

Napoleon winced in the dark. Was that a single bed between them? "How long did the two of you live together?"

"Three terms, minus the summer when he went home. I was employed to do maintenance work at the lab, and lived at the flat alone then."

"That must have been a luxury, having the place to yourself."

"Not really," Illya said wistfully.

Napoleon sighed. Illya had missed Hugh when he was away. Had he missed him all these years? There was silence between them for awhile, and Napoleon wondered if Illya had fallen asleep.

He spoke anyway. "Illya?"

"Hmm?"

Napoleon asked the question that he'd wondered about for days. "It was more than a platonic love, wasn't it?"

"We were outsiders. He was beneath the class of the rest of the students, and I was a Soviet."

The question hung in the air.

"I didn't expect to fall in love with anyone, much less another man."

The confirmation cut into Napoleon's heart like a knife, and he couldn't speak.

Illya apparently took the silence for disapproval. "I'm sorry if I disappoint you, Napoleon."

"You don't disappoint me, Illya," Napoleon said, his voice reduced to a whisper. Illya's shoulder against his was the most intimate thing he'd felt in a long time. "I understand how that could happen."

"I'm glad you do," Illya said. He rolled to his side, his back to Napoleon, ending the conversation.

Napoleon lay awake for another hour. He had an idea how justice could be served and he could once again protect an innocent life. It was ingrained in him to do so, no matter what the circumstances, no matter what the consequences. 

He looked at the back of Illya's blond head and yearned to put his arms around him, like Hugh must have done so many times. Like Hugh might do again one day soon, once he was free.  
   
******************************  
   
Illya woke to the sound of church bells and a sunny Sunday morning. He saw Napoleon standing at an open window in boxers and t-shirt, looking through the sheers down into the courtyard.

"What are you watching?" Illya said as he stretched the sleep out of him.

"Beautiful retriever lying down there on the grass."

"Oh," said Illya, sitting up in bed. "That's Dragon. He has the run of the hotel."

Napoleon looked him. Illya was incredibly attractive in the morning with tousled hair and heavy-lidded eyes. "You and he are pals, huh?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Illya said around a yawn. "I don't have a good track record with dogs."

Illya seemed to have forgotten his depression of the night before. He padded over to Napoleon in his bare feet and looked out the window as well, stopping very close to him. "You're going to be arrested for indecency if you stand here much longer."

Napoleon looked across the courtyard. There were other people moving by their windows in robes and hair curlers and various states of dress. Someone began playing a piano not far away. A breeze billowed the sheer curtains into the room. "We should always stay here when we come to London. It's homier than the big hotels. More discreet, too."

"It is cozy," Illya replied, scratching his chest "but there's no room service."

Napoleon smiled and looked into Illya's eyes. "You are spoiled." _And gorgeous and lovable and I could throw you back on the bed right now_ , Napoleon thought impulsively, startling himself. He turned away from Illya. "We'd better hurry or we'll miss breakfast."

Once again they planned their day over eggs and toast.

"As I suggested last night, you need a day off," Napoleon said.

Much to his surprise, Illya agreed. "What shall we do?"

"Mingle with the natives. What do they do on Sunday?"

Illya thought about it. "You're a man of eclectic tastes, Napoleon." Napoleon's apartment contained both modern art and vintage valuables. "How about some stall browsing on Portobello Road?"

"I've heard of that market. Sounds intriguing."

"Everything from Aunt Sadie's molting fox stole to psychedelic concert posters."

Napoleon wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. "Lead the way."

The tube deposited them at the Notting Hill station, and Illya consulted a map on the wall and a companion calendar of events. "Hmm, it appears the market is closed on Sundays."

"Tell me again what you do for a living," Napoleon said.

Illya gave him a mock scowl. "Come on. I'm sure there are some shops open."

Before they knew it they had spent over three hours browsing the antique shops and bookstores, and found themselves in front of a pub with the most inviting aroma of fish and chips.

"Shall we?" Napoleon said.

"We wouldn't want to send you off on a transatlantic flight with an empty stomach," Illya said, opening the door for him.

They settled into a booth, its table and benches made of dark, much-shellacked wood. Napoleon spread out his antique find of the day and counted them, a service for eight.

"What are you going to do with salt spoons?" Illya asked, his chin propped on his hand.

"I might sew them into my collars in case I have to dig a tunnel some day."

"You do not have the patience of a Count of Monte Cristo," Illya said. "Besides, I would rescue you long before that. In a year or two anyway."

Napoleon chuckled and examined one of the tiny spoons, then rolled them up in their felt and tucked them into his breast pocket. "I thought Mrs. Waverly might invite us to dinner again during the Christmas season."

"A unique gift indeed," Illya said. "That's my partner, always thinking ahead."

Napoleon loved it when Illya referred to him as "my" anything, and he was happy to be spending a pleasant afternoon with him. It was a familiar scenario, having a meal together, talking about unimportant things to break the tension of whatever important thing that was occupying them.

Their lunch was delivered to them on several layers of newspaper.

"You know, Illya, I lay awake thinking last night," Napoleon began, "that what Hugh needs is a professional investigator, someone who knows the city, has contacts. Plus, a top drawer attorney--"

"Barrister," Illya corrected.

"Barrister," Napoleon repeated. "A man who knows how to sway a jury, or a judge as the case may be." He stabbed the air with a chip for emphasis. "Who can raise doubts and cross-examine witnesses mercilessly."

"You mean Perry Mason."

"A British Perry Mason," Napoleon said with a nod.

"Napoleon, you're forgetting that Hugh doesn't have the money for that. I would give it to him, but I don't have that kind of money either."

"Maybe I can help," Napoleon said.

Illya snorted. "You? The same Napoleon Solo who constantly borrows pocket change from me?"

"I'll have you know," Napoleon said, "that I have a sizable portfolio."

Illya looked dubious. "The only portfolio I'm aware of is a manila folder full of 8 x 10 cheesecake."

"You don't know everything about me, my friend," Napoleon countered. "This isn't earned money. It's inherited." He paused and his face saddened. "It was my parents' nest egg. If they hadn't died in the accident, they'd be retired by now, comfortable. But," he said, staring down at his food, "it wasn't meant to be."

"I'm sorry," Illya said, subdued.

Napoleon dismissed it. "Anyway, I haven't touched it, not even the interest. And I think my parents would be gratified that their money will be used to stop an innocent man from going to prison for the rest of his life."

Illya looked worried. "Are you certain you want to do this?"

"If you're one hundred per cent sure of his innocence," Napoleon said. "I was sure of Colonel Morgan, remember?"

"I would stake my life on it."

"Then it's done. I'll go back to New York and liquidate some bonds, then send you a cashier's check in the UNCLE diplomatic pouch to make sure it arrives before you leave London. In the meantime, you can line up the professionals to accomplish all this."

The promising task made Illya's face light up. "Hugh and I will repay the debt," he said. "Every penny."

"I'm not worried," Napoleon said, although the "Hugh and I" phrasing made him want to reach across the table and shake someone.

They finished their meal and returned on the tube to the Earls Court station and the Hotel St. George where Napoleon collected his bag.

Illya accompanied him to the street. "There's another two hours before visiting hours are over at the prison," he said. "I think I'll go and tell Hugh that the cavalry is on its way."

Napoleon didn't want to imagine the scene, but did want to be supportive. "Maybe that will give him a good night's sleep for once."

The doorman signaled a taxi and Napoleon started to get in. Illya stopped him, holding his arm. "Thank you, Napoleon," he said. "I wish I could express how grateful I am." Napoleon thought Illya might pull him into an embrace, but was left wanting.

"What are partners for?" Napoleon said. He gave Illya an uncharacteristically shy smile, and got into the taxi.

Two hours later, Napoleon settled into his seat on Pan Am flight 260 to New York. An attractive blonde seated next to him asked if he was traveling for business or pleasure, normally an ideal opening to an enjoyable flight. He gave her a tight smile and a terse "business" and turned away to stare out the window. Was Hugh once again whispering to Illya that he loved him? Would Illya whisper back?

The plane sped down the runway, and it seemed fitting when the earth fell out from under him.  
   
******************************  
   
The annual Summit Five conference came and went without incident, and Solo and Kuryakin found themselves with little to occupy their time but routine duties at headquarters. Hugh's trial was in its third week, and Illya was anxious.

"Why don't you stand still for two minutes?" Napoleon said, sitting back with his feet up on his desk. "I'm sure someone will notify you as soon as there's any news."

Illya preferred to replace a stack of classified folders in the file cabinet on the other side of the room one at a time, walking from his desk and back again, and again, and again.

"We're paying Willoughby Investigations Ltd. a fortune, and the attorney five times---"

"Barrister."

Illya stopped in his tracks and glared at Napoleon. "Barrister." He continued, "We're paying him and the solicitor three times as much. Per hour. With your money."

"It costs what it costs," Napoleon said with a shrug. "As long as there's no pound of flesh I'm not worried. Have a little faith."

Napoleon's phone rang. "Solo." He listened for a moment then stretched his arm out to his partner, receiver in hand. "It's faith returning your call."

Illya gaped, stared at the receiver, then grabbed it. "Kuryakin."

His eyes lit up when he heard the familiar voice. "Hugh!"

Napoleon could only follow one side of the conversation.

"What?"

Relief flooded Illya's face, and he grinned at Napoleon.

"How--?"

"Hugh, slow down. The Queen's English, please."

He listened for a few minutes, and Napoleon watched Illya's every reaction.

"Of course, I had no doubt!"

"Yes, I'll tell him."

"I should be able to catch a ride on an UNCLE shuttle to London soon, and we can celebrate properly."

"All right."

"Goodbye, my friend."

Napoleon's heart sank at a couple of those replies, but Illya rushed behind him, leaned down and grasped him around the shoulders. "He's free, Napoleon!"

Napoleon patted Illya's wrists and had to chuckle at his unbridled happiness. "So I gathered."

Illya came around in front of him. "A co-worker of one of the women told Willoughby that a fellow employee had been too solicitous, loitering around Joan's desk, bringing her little unwanted gifts. Joan ridiculed him behind his back and he must have gotten wind of it. Willoughby's people persuaded the police to question him and when his alibi didn't hold up, he confessed. The other girl was killed simply because she happened to be with Joan." Illya gave a long sigh. "Hugh is a free man again."

Napoleon looked at Illya with affection. "I'm happy for you. And, uh, for Hugh, of course."

"It's all because of you, Napoleon," Illya said. "Hugh wanted to make sure that I thanked you again." He grabbed Napoleon's arm and pulled him up. "And I'm going to take you to lunch. You can get the biggest sandwich the Carnegie Deli makes."

"You're on," Napoleon said, letting himself be led.

Illya took Napoleon's jacket from its hanger and held it for him.

"Say, how long am I going to get this VIP treatment?" Napoleon asked, putting his arms in the sleeves.

"For at least the rest of the day," Illya said.

Napoleon turned toward Illya and smirked. "Worth every penny."

Illya laughed and straightened Napoleon's lapels. "Memorial Day is this weekend. If you'd like, we can take your boat out and I'll polish the brass and swab the decks."

Napoleon gave Illya a regretful look as he adjusted his cuffs. "Sorry, partner. I've already promised a lovely redhead of my acquaintance an extended sail this weekend."

Illya's face showed a passing cloud of disappointment, but he was in too good a mood for it to last.

"Tell you what," Napoleon said. "The 4th of July is on a Monday this year. We can take a long weekend's sail then, just you and me. Unless, uh…"

"Unless?" Illya said, shrugging into his own jacket.

"Unless you'd rather go to London."

Illya thought about it briefly. "I'm sure I can catch a shuttle some other time."

Napoleon smiled, happy that Illya chose his company over Hugh's. "It's a date. Now, come on." He turned to go out the door. "I've got a Reuben of gargantuan proportions waiting for me."  
   
******************************  
   
Illya arrived at the marina at 7 a.m. on Saturday in a car borrowed from the motor pool, trusting that Napoleon and his latest girlfriend would not leave on their sail before ten. He carried a basket of decadent gratitude -- two bottles of champagne, a container of foi gras in dry ice, fresh strawberries, French baguettes, imported cheese, and Belgian chocolates.

His heart should have been lighter after Hugh had been exonerated, and yet he didn't feel particularly celebratory. He wished he himself was going on this trip instead of the redhead du jour, but after everything Napoleon had done for Hugh, Illya had no right to resent his friend's weekend of cavorting.

He made his way down the dock to the slip where the Pursang was berthed and paused before he boarded her. She wasn't the biggest, but she was the best looking craft in the marina. He knew he was biased. He'd been Napoleon's first mate a dozen times, and it was on the Pursang that he'd fallen in love with the sea, learning the thrill of opening up the sails and slicing through the water at a perilous angle, the wind taking his breath, billowing his shirt, whipping his hair. Then the sublime peace of being anchored in a still harbor at night, reclining in a deck chair next to his partner and taking turns pointing out constellations, the boat rocking just enough to soothe. He smiled as he looked at her, remembering, and a wave of melancholy came over him.

Enough, Illya thought, dragging himself back to reality. Napoleon's enjoyment was paramount this weekend, even if it was going to be without him. He climbed aboard. The cabin door was locked, so he stowed the basket on the deck where it would be in shadow all morning, and checked to make sure the card was securely attached. _"Bon voyage and many thanks, Illya."_ Napoleon would recognize his handwriting and not be suspicious about what he was putting in his stomach.

He stood and looked up and down the boat, from bow to stern. That was that. No reason to stay longer. But fifteen minutes wouldn't hurt. He sat down, closed his eyes, and turned his face to the sun. Did Napoleon say the redhead was a stewardess? Maybe she would be called to substitute for someone who fell ill at the last minute. That had happened on another occasion. Napoleon might be phoning him at home at this very minute to ask if he could join him. He should probably wait here until he arrived, just in ca--

"Ahoy there!"

Illya opened his eyes and looked around. A man in his sixties, dapper in white trousers and shirt and sporting a captain's hat was standing on the dock, apparently addressing him.

"Yes?" Illya said, shading his eyes with one hand.

"Who are you?" the man said.

A concerned neighbor, Illya thought, looking after Napoleon's interests. "I was just delivering some provisions for my friend. He's going out this afternoon."

"Napoleon Solo?" the man said.

"That's right," Illya said. "And you are…?"

"Good man, Napoleon," the stranger said, and to Illya's surprise, climbed aboard. "Maybe he's mentioned me. Amos van der Voort?" He thrust out his hand, and Illya shook it warily. The man nodded. "Now that I look at you, I have seen you with him a couple of times."

"Illya Kuryakin," he introduced himself.

"Well, uh, Illya, is it?" the man said. "Apparently you haven't been informed."

"Informed?"

"This is my boat now."

Illya gave him a blank look, then a condescending smile. "You're mistaken. This is the Pursang."

"I know," Amos said with a chuckle. "I'm not senile yet." He looked up and down the deck, just as Illya had done a few minutes earlier. "I've always admired her, and told Napoleon many times to give me first crack at her if he wanted to sell. He always scoffed, in a good-humored way, you understand. Then two months ago, he called me, all of a sudden, on a Monday it was, and asked if I was still interested. Said he needed the cash."

Illya was certain that his heart had stopped.

"I jumped at the opportunity, of course," Amos continued, "before he had a chance to change his mind." He gestured vaguely across the marina. "Oh, my own sloop over there is adequate, but I've always wanted to own a first-class vessel like this once in my life, before it's time for the rocking chair." He took the few steps to the cabin door, fished for the key in his pocket, and unlocked it. "My wife loves the teak interior."

"But..." Illya said quietly, still not comprehending, "…but he said he was taking her out on the 4th of July."

"Oh, Madeline -- that's my wife -- is dragging me to her family reunion in Rhode Island that weekend," Amos said with a grimace, "so I offered to let Napoleon use her. I figured he would be missing her pretty badly by then." He winked at Illya. "You've got to take pity on a fellow sailor sometimes, right?"

lllya's horror was multiplying with every word the man said.

"You look stunned," Amos said. "I'm surprised Napoleon didn't tell you he sold her."

Illya took a deep breath. "I'm not."

"No?"

"Never mind," Illya said, swallowing hard. "I apologize for trespassing." He moved to the side in a daze and started to disembark.

"Simple misunderstanding," Amos said. "Oh, wait, your basket!" He retrieved it and handed it to Illya.

"Thank you," Illya said, taking it robotically.

He strode up the dock -- anger, sorrow, outrage, guilt, all vying for prominence in his brain. He was accustomed to stressful situations, but this one was too much for his blood pressure. He stopped for a minute when he reached land. His vision was actually blurry. And why not? His partner had lost his most precious possession, and Illya himself had been the cause.

He made his way to the parking lot and threw the basket in the back seat of the car where it toppled over, spilling its contents. He got in and gripped the steering wheel, not trusting himself to drive yet, then slammed it with the palms of his hands, again and again. He finally put his forehead down in defeat. "Napoleon, Napoleon," he whispered. "What have you done?"

He sat in the car for a long time, working through his emotions. He would have to scold his partner mercilessly about selling his prized possession, but eventually, after some shouting, he would express as much gratitude as Napoleon would permit. Even though Illya would want to throw his arms around him and kiss him senseless, a few words and perhaps a quick hug would have to suffice. In spite of the bond the two of them shared, Illya knew that Napoleon was still a skirt-chasing, girl-crazy, self-described red-blooded all-American boy.

He would not be receptive to the kind of gratitude Illya wanted to show him. He was not Hugh.  
   
******************************  
   
It was going to be a long weekend, Napoleon thought as he lingered over his morning paper. There was little chance of running into Illya on the upper west side, but he should lay low just the same. That Russian had antennae when it came to his partner.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave," he said aloud as he turned to the Arts section.

He would have liked nothing better than to spend the holiday weekend with Illya They could have driven upstate to explore some wineries, or stayed in the city and tried a few new restaurants. But he had to invent a story about why they couldn't go out on the Pursang, and didn't think fast enough. Motor trouble. Why didn't he say motor trouble?

So now for three days he had nothing to do, and he'd have to keep his mind occupied and distant from all thoughts of Illya. And Hugh. Illya and Hugh.

Napoleon read the first paragraph of a review of _The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming_ three times without comprehending a word of it. Illya had told Hugh that he'd come to London soon. Would he start making regular visits there? The UNCLE shuttle flew to England at least once a week. Napoleon imagined being alone at Christmas.

He turned to the sports page. Fans were flocking to Indianapolis for the 500. Funny how two months ago he'd never heard of Hugh Bennett, and now he was all Napoleon could think about. He was genuinely glad that Hugh had gained his freedom, but not that he and Illya had reconnected. Would they resume their…what was the proper term? Romance? Intimate friendship?

"If anyone's going to be intimate with Illya…" Napoleon murmured, shaking out a crimp in the newspaper. The events of the last two months made him realize that his feelings for Illya were more than friendly, more than affectionate, but he wasn't yet sure how to define them. They contradicted everything he knew. That morning in the little hotel in London he'd wanted Illya. Physically wanted him. Could loving another man satisfy him? Could Hugh abort the possibility before Napoleon had the chance to find out?

He gave up trying to concentrate on the paper and tossed it on the coffee table. The 4th of July was six weeks away. He and Illya might be on assignment that weekend -- their one chance to use the boat. He felt a pang thinking about the loss of the Pursang, but it would be nothing compared to losing Illya. He looked at his watch. Only 10 a.m. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and resisted the urge to pour himself a scotch. Don't go down that road.

He got up with a sigh and sauntered about his living room, looking for a distraction, and found himself standing in front of the fireplace mantel. A model of his beloved sailboat, nearly two feet tall, dominated the space. It wasn't an exact replica but close enough. Illya had found it in a shop on Cape Cod, paid an artist to paint  _Pursang_ on the hull, and gave it to Napoleon for his birthday in '64. Napoleon knew it had put a pretty good dent in Illya's paycheck. He ran his finger over the delicately painted letters. He'd never sell this one.

A knock at the door startled him.

There was only one person the doorman would allow to come up without ringing first. Why would Illya be here? Napoleon went to the door and looked at the monitor next to it.

Yes, it was Illya, giving a little nod to the camera.

Napoleon stood back from the door for a minute. He needed a story. He couldn't just say he was running late. Illya might offer him a ride to the marina, or want to see him off. His imaginary date couldn't have cancelled either, or Illya might suggest--

Illya knocked again. Napoleon straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

"Illya," he said casually.

His partner strolled past him. " 'Morning, Napoleon."

"What are you doing here?" Napoleon said, locking the door again and following him into the living room.

Illya turned toward him. "I wondered if I'd catch you before you left for the marina."

"Oh, uh, actually my plans fell through," Napoleon said, scratching the back of his neck, "I went out to Long Island last night to prepare for the sail, and the motor seemed to be running a little rough. I should have it checked before I take her out again. The marina insists that we be under power when we move in and out, you know."

"What a shame," Illya said. The model on the fireplace mantel seemed to catch his eye. "I realize I'm a poor substitute for a shapely redhead, but my weekend is free. We could just sit at the dock and drink beer, grill some fish." He looked hopeful, and Napoleon wished they could do just that.

"Well, I promised Julie that I'd make it up to her. We'll probably go to the beach," Napoleon said with a shrug.

"You'll still get to see her in a bikini, hmm?" Illya teased.

Napoleon nodded and gave a little laugh.

"Do you mind if I relax on the boat, on my own?" Illya asked innocently. "I'd like to get out of town, too."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation. Illya looked at Napoleon with eyebrows raised, waiting.

"How did you find out?"

"I could have been arrested for trespassing."

Napoleon decided he needed that drink after all, and crossed the room to his bar. "You ran into Amos, I take it."

"Yes," Illya said. "He set me straight about whose boat I was lounging upon."

Napoleon looked at Illya and held up a bottle of vodka.

"It's not even noon."

"I'm observing Greenwich time."

"You lied to me about the inheritance," Illya said in a low, testy tone.

"What the hell were you doing on the Pursang this morning anyway?" Napoleon said, raising his voice.

"Offense is not the best defense today, Napoleon."

Napoleon let out a long breath. "Okay, I stretched the truth a little."

Illya finally let his exasperation loose. "How could you???"

"Listen, the Pursang sits in her slip most of the time. Amos has the means to take good care of her, and he promised to sell her back to me in a few years. By then I'll be behind a desk and have more time to sail."

Illya would not be swayed. "And you thought you could keep this a secret from me."

"I'm pretty good at keeping secrets."

"Perhaps you should clue me in on the rest of them, so I don't stumble upon them and make a fool of myself!" Illya said, showing some anger. "As much as I am grateful to you for doing it, you had no business making such a sacrifice for someone you don't even know."

"We risk our lives every day for people we don't know. Anyway," Napoleon said, determined to turn the tables, "Hugh was too much of a distraction for you, so I expedited things."

"Are you insinuating I was neglecting my duty?" Illya said with a frown. "That's rich coming from someone who ran off to help a villain like Morgan."

Napoleon rubbed the side of his jaw, willing himself to stay calm. "What I'm hearing does not sound like gratitude."

They had been standing face to face, but a few feet apart. Illya approached him now. "It's complicated, but that doesn't change the fact that I would never…" he emphasized that word with a shove to Napoleon's shoulder "… _never_ have let you sell the Pursang."

"What kind of schoolyard behavior is that?" Napoleon said, affronted. And shoved him back.

"You love that boat!"

"You don't love things, Illya," Napoleon said in a low growl, getting in Illya's face. "You love people." He wanted to grab Illya and show him exactly what he meant by that, but the handsome face of Hugh Bennett appeared in his mind, and he turned away. "Like you love Hugh."

Illya was caught by surprise. He suddenly felt guilty about his relationship with his old school friend. Guilt was hounding him today, shaming him. He lowered his voice and stared at Napoleon's back. "I admit that seeing Hugh again stirred some old feelings, but--"

"I've never seen you look at-- anyone the way you look at him," Napoleon said, sounding defeated.

"I've never denied that I'm fond of him. And I had sympathy for what he was enduring in that prison."

"You told me you loved him," Napoleon said, staring through the French doors that led to the terrace, swirling the scotch in his glass.

"I did but---"

"I've been thinking about you and Hugh since I left London. Even on the plane home, sitting there in the dark, imagining the two of you holding each other, I felt like I was losing something infinitely more precious than a boat."

"Losing...?"

"You and I, Illya" Napoleon began, shaking his head. "You and I are so often right on the edge of something. Something that's right there for the taking. Something that we should grab onto," he said, making a fist, "and never let go."

Illya was quiet.

Napoleon finished his thought. "But we never do."

"I…I thought there was a reason for that," Illya said.

Napoleon sighed. "You mean my predilection for the fairer sex?"

"Obviously."

He kept his back to Illya. "It took a handsome young Brit to make me realize how I feel about you, to give me a much needed kick in the ass."

Napoleon waited for what seemed like an eternity for Illya to speak. Thrush torture went by faster.

"Napoleon," Illya said softly. "I would like nothing better than to grab onto you and never let go."

Napoleon turned to face him.

"For the rest of my life," Illya continued with a catch in his voice, "as short or as long as that may be."

Napoleon felt his heart begin to race, but apprehension overruled. "What about Hugh?"

"I wanted you, not him, but I thought that was out of the question. So when Hugh called---"

"You wanted me?" Napoleon said.

"Ohhh, Napoleon," Illya said, shaking his head and giving Napoleon a look that he could only interpret as smoldering. "I've wanted you for ages."

"You--"

Napoleon's highball glass dropped out of his hand onto the carpeting as he crossed to Illya in three strides. Illya was ready and threw his arms around Napoleon's neck while Napoleon enveloped him and nearly lifted him off his feet, smothering his next words in his partner's shoulder.

"Don't go back to him," Napoleon pleaded.

Illya withdrew enough to take Napoleon's face in his hands. "Why would I when I have you?" He closed in on Napoleon's mouth, just brushing their lips together. "At last."

Illya's arms went around Napoleon's shoulders again and he fisted Napoleon's hair as they deepened the kiss, overwhelmed with the power of it, gasping for breath when their mouths broke free only to come back at each other with a newly discovered urgency, again and again. They sank to the floor, pulling at each other's clothes until there was only skin on skin.

"I've always thought of you as belonging to me," Napoleon said, one hand squeezing Illya's ass possessively, digging his nails into him. "Now I know you do."

Illya locked his legs around Napoleon, pressing their hard cocks together. "I stake my claim as well."

Napoleon kept a fierce eye contact with him, matching his movements surge for surge, all the muscles in their torsos flexing, imprisoning each other with strong arms and legs, each of them taking what they wanted, the intensity in their bodies and psyches building, until they came together, loud and wet and panting.

Napoleon thought he had lost consciousness for a minute, because he found himself sprawled naked and sweaty on his carpeting, not remembering when he'd let go of Illya. He looked over to see his partner in the same state. Illya's eyes were closed as he strove to catch his breath, and Napoleon got up on his elbow and looked at him, watching his chest rise and fall, the sheen of sweat on his skin, his cock laying on his belly, half hard.

Even after the shattering orgasm he'd just had, Napoleon still felt a lust for Illya. He couldn't fathom how this desire for him had lain dormant for so long. The sex had been so natural, so complete, so satisfying. He should have known that worry was needless when it came to the two of them. The perfect two of them.

Illya opened his eyes slightly to see Napoleon admiring him. He smiled seductively. "Are you missing your redhead?"

"I'm not missing a thing. Not any more." He leaned down and kissed Illya with passion and Illya slid back into his arms, confirming that the need, the life-altering need, was mutual. "Let's move to the bedroom."

"I second that motion."

Napoleon got up and pulled Illya up and into his arms again.

"Are you ever going to let go of me?" Illya teased.

"Not on your life," Napoleon said. "At least not for the next three--"

"Wait," Illya said, pulling out of Napoleon's arms. "I forgot something."

Napoleon reluctantly let go of him and watched, puzzled, as Illya strolled naked to the front door and opened it. He picked up a big basket that was just outside in the foyer and returned to Napoleon. "Provisions."

Napoleon examined the contents. "Where did all this come from?" he said, delighted.

"The boat fairy."

Napoleon saw the card then and chuckled. "So that's what you were doing at the marina."

"That reminds me," Illya said, glaring at him. "I'm still angry with you."

Napoleon glared back at him. "And I'm furious, so you'd better run for your life."

Illya ran into the bedroom and dived onto the bed, Napoleon hot on his heels, then hot on top of him, both of them laughing, rolling together as one.

"I love your skin," Napoleon said as he stroked Illya's leg. "And your mouth," he said, touching Illya's lips with one finger. "And…" He stopped and withdrew somewhat.

"And what?" Illya said.

"And you," Napoleon said, smiling down at him.

Illya pulled him closer. "Yet another thing I am grateful for." His hand slithered between them to grasp Napoleon's cock, which resulted in a satisfying gasp. "Allow me to demonstrate how much."  
   
******************************  
   
Dear Hugh,

Thank you for the invitation to visit for a week this August,  
but I'm afraid I must decline. Napoleon and I are taking a cabin  
in New Hampshire around that time to escape the city and the job.  
We are in London occasionally and perhaps we can meet for dinner.

My best always,

Your friend,  Illya  
 

 

   
The end.

 

  
My thanks to CW for Napoleon's Pursang, which is canon in my MFU universe. A big thank you also goes to my beta, Lee the T, who has taught me so much about writing.


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